Reuben Part 3: Hitting the Big Time
by paulbc
Summary: This concludes the prequel to the "Reuben is Danny" timeline. It picks up after Altamont, takes Reuben through a series of self-discoveries and finally ties him back to the Partridge Family timeline as we know it.
1. Harold

I made a quick return to LA. Two thoughts weighed heavily. The first was my failure to prevent the stabbing at Altamont, and the second was how to break it to Harold.

For all that, it wasn't a wasted trip. I had, after all, managed to keep those kids from going near the stabbing. If my dream was any guide, this prevented a far worse outcome. But how could I be sure the two were even connected? History, it seemed, had proceeded on schedule. That dream was just a dream. There's no proof anything bad would have happened if the kids kept to their plan.

The problem with Altamont went far beyond a single incident. The whole vibe was just peculiar. It was hard to pin down exactly. Drugs? Well, this was par for the course, but maybe the drugs themselves were different. There wasn't a sense of togetherness. Obviously it didn't help to have constant scuffles with bikers. Judged purely as a concert with top name bands, you might ignore the rest and pronounce it a great success. Much of the early reporting did just that, which is probably what Harold had heard.

I went to the office the next morning and found Harold already at his desk reading a book. Nothing unusual there. His interests were eclectic. But as I walked in, he pointed to a page excitedly.

"That's it! I've been trying to find it for months."

"Really, what's that?" I asked.

"Well, there was this kid I met at Woodstock..."

He'd been starting a lot of stories this way since he'd returned, and there was no letup in sight. To say he'd experienced an epiphany those four days in August would be an understatement. He continued.

"I don't think I told you about him. Real straight arrow, and a philosopher too, just finishing college. He came with friends. He was there for music and fun, not into drugs at all, not that he was judgmental about it. It wasn't his thing."

"And you found something he told you in that book?" I prompted.

"Well, sort of. I was struck by how he saw the goodness in people. All people. I thought, if this is the next generation, we might really be onto something big."

Now I felt a pit in my stomach with the way this story was heading. Despite my confusion and patchy memory, I had an idea of what the next decade would bring and it wasn't what Harold was hoping. I kept listening.

"Anyway, the next day, I see him again, he's on the ground with his hands over his eyes and he's thrashing."

"What?" This wasn't the story I was expecting after all.

"Turned out, he'd been dosed."

"Dosed?"

"Yeah, you know some people were slipping acid into food and drinks. Some really low quality acid too. I mean, I'm not gonna go all Joe Friday on the kids who want to experiment with psychedelics, but it was just wrong, tricking people like that, maybe putting them in danger."

"OK..."

"So he keeps saying 'Merton. Merton was right!' and sometimes he's laughing, sometimes he's screaming. A few volunteers came by to talk him down from his trip. Good people. The festival would have been a complete disaster without them. Once he calmed down, he was sitting up straight and making more sense, but he wouldn't take his hands off his eyes.

"It was always about this Merton. Merton says this, Merton says that. I forgot most of it, but there was one part he repeated." Harold read from his book. "'There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun ... If only we could see each other that way all the time.' So, he gets back to how Merton was right, and he's all excited about this. Only, and this is the thing that's bothering him.

"'Merton never warned me that the light would leave me blind.' He kept his hands over his eyes and he just started crying."

"Well," I said. "Bad trip. Who knows what it means?"

"I know what it means. Don't you get it? This guy was so sensitive, he could see the essential goodness of human beings directly. It wasn't an abstraction. But even with that, his mind had a barrier for his own protection. The acid broke down that barrier. Seeing it all at once was too much to bear."

I was starting to get really nervous now. Harold had remained a great boss and an excellent music agent since returning, but now I wondered if he was coming unhinged. He went on.

"It turns out this Merton was Thomas Merton, a Trappist Monk. He died about a year ago in an accident."

"You're religious, Harold?"

"No, no. Anyway, it's not my religion. Merton talks about it in Catholic terms, God and Christ and all, but what if he's right about the core of our beings? I found something here, where he talks about a light in every person."

Harold quoted, "if we could see it we would see these billions of points of light coming together in the face and blaze of a sun."

"You believe that?"

"Well, I was reminded of when I was young they were doing a lot of atomic testing. You must remember. There was an expression 'brighter than a thousand suns' and of course the scientists always needed heavy eye protection. And I just wondered, what if that poor kid was right. If we saw each other as we truly are, would we go blind?"

"Well, if that's what's bothering you..." It seemed an odd concern, but important to Harold. A thought came to me. "Do you remember how I told you about how I woke up on a park bench?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not sure I mentioned, I woke up with a mask over my eyes. When I took it off, the sun was so bright, it really did blind me. But here's the point. It only blinded me because I was used to the darkness. Do you think maybe your friend has discovered the same thing? The blindness is only temporary. It takes time to adjust to the light."

"Reuben, that's a really beautiful thought. You know, I will try to think about it that way. I believe you may have solved the whole riddle."

"Glad I could help," I replied with a crooked grin. It seemed crazy to me, but I was relieved that it worked.

"Now, tell me about Altamont," Harold said with a smile. "I want to hear all about how it went."

The pit in my stomach came back.


	2. Breaking the News

"Sorry to be the one to tell you," I said to Harold, "but Altamont was no Woodstock. It was a little disturbing to be honest."

"I heard about the stabbing..."

"Yeah, but that wasn't the only thing. It was a complete mess, just constant fighting around the stage. Even some performers were injured."

Harold shook his head.

"It's hard to pin down," I continued. "The bands were great and the crowd was enormous, but it definitely wasn't the kind of event you've been hoping for. There wasn't the sense of shared purpose."

"Well, the news hasn't been that bad, considering."

"Give it time, Harold. Altamont is going to develop a bad reputation. And unfortunately, it's likely to make it harder to put on another big festival."

"You say it like you know that for certain, Reuben. Sometimes I don't understand you. If you'd been at Woodstock, you'd see what was on the horizon. We're entering a new age."

I realized there was no point in naysaying for its own sake. "Yeah, Harold. Maybe it is just a setback. Who knows?"

"Anyway," Harold continued, "Altamont was pretty small, a one day concert. Some of the best acts from Woodstock were missing. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, they'll be with us for a long time to come."

Could he come up with a worse reply? Maybe Harold saw the future too, only in opposite form. I just kept quiet and started doing the math in my head. It was December 1969. That left a little less than 10 months. How many days was that?

"Reuben, are you OK?" Harold asked, seeing my face. "The point is just that they're still young, under 30. Amazing musicians. There's still a lot of time for them to grow and set new trends."

"Yeah I know. Um... sometimes I just wish these, uh, rock stars, would take better care of themselves." It was the first thing I could think of to say and I couldn't hold back.

"Well, the life of an artist. Always has to be wild, right? Not even-keeled businessmen like us." He winked.

Truth is, I never believed that. Not in that other life or in this one. I do not believe that an artist needs to burn bright and flame out fast. Some do, no question about it. When that happens it's a tragedy. And some of them just keep on keeping on like they say, well into old age. It's a purely individual thing. Artists are more mercurial than their agents, but it was a damn shame to lose so many of them, and so young. I hadn't thought about Joplin or Hendrix until now, nor the fact that their deaths were less than a year away.

Altamont aside, I wondered if I could do anything about it. How I could I have the warnings and be doomed to live through it again?

I looked at Harold. With his new look and the conversation we'd just had, I wondered if he was as even-keeled as all that. But as far as I could tell, he was still as reliable as ever.

"So how'd it go while I was gone?"

"What can I say? We're firing on all cylinders. I saw a couple of the bands you handle. Packed houses. I still don't know how you pick 'em."

"It's all about audience." I told a half-truth, leaving out that extra knowledge I had. "It's not about whether I like the band personally."

"I know," said Harold. "and that was always part of my system. But I could never leave out personal taste. I'm impressed at your professionalism. I believe you must have been doing this before, even if you can't remember when or where. And... I still think you should see a doctor about that."

"What can a doctor do for me? I feel fine. I am more in my element than ever." That part was true. Whatever my other life was about, it's as if I'd been preparing for this one.

On my desk were a few short messages from the bands I represented. I read them over. With no more appointments today, and no new bands to screen, I told Harold I was taking the rest of the day off.

I went back to my apartment. Seeing my mask again, I was tempted to take a late morning nap with it. Something made me wary. The mask seemed to have a lot to do with my predicament, though what I could not be sure.

I looked over the record collection I had begun to accumulate. New albums from bands I had only read about as history, bands in their prime. On vinyl for crying out loud! I thought of "Raymond" in that other life. He'd have given his right arm to be living at the time I was now. I might as well enjoy it. I put on some music and lay back.

Could I change history? That was the big unknown. I could try at least. I closed my eyes and began to think of a plan.


	3. Opportunity

Thoughts streamed through my head in a long reverie. This wasn't a dream. I had no direct glimpses of the future, but scenarios played out one after the other. To be blunt, none of them seemed even slightly workable. If I tried to meet Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix, I'd look like an over-eager fan at best, at worst like a hopelessly deluded opportunist. My one advantage was that I knew when and where their deaths would happen, but it wasn't much of a help.

For Joplin, it would be nearby in Hollywood. For Hendrix it would be in London, a long trip to make on such a slim hope. Grasping at straws, I considered tracking down my old colleague, assuming she'd settled in London as she said. I'd ring her up.

"Janet, I know you weren't expecting to hear from me, but there's a big favor I need..." I imagined myself saying, "because, I have, uh, important information about, uh, the future, and I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't know anyone else in London who can help me."

I'd keep that plan in reserve. Clearly there were a few knots to work out. Now suppose I managed to get meetings with two of the best known rock stars of the day. Then what? "I want to talk about your drug problem." Right. That makes for a short conversation. In fact, I'd probably seem like a narc before I opened my mouth. People sense that kind of thing. And... honestly they already had close friends who would know a lot more about it than me. Those friends were going to fail. Who was I kidding?

Another possibility was to nudge events from the outside. This was more realistic. Just distract them a little, like I did with those kids at Altamont. Other artists with self-destructive habits had made it through rough spots and lived long after. If a flight could be delayed, a taxi caught in traffic... all sorts of minor things. I'd been reading all I could about time travel since discovering my gift. I thought of that old story about the crushed butterfly that changed history. Who wrote that? Anyway, the smallest thing could make a huge difference.

Just then, the phone rang. I wasn't usually at home this time of day, and I didn't get a lot of personal calls to start with. Most likely, it was a wrong number, but I answered.

"Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Kincaid?"

"Yes. Who is this? How do you have my number?" (which I never gave out to clients or clubs)

"Pardon the intrusion. You _are_ Mr. Reuben Kincaid, music agent?"

"One and the same. Sorry, not taking new clients," I said with a studied impatience. "How did you get my number?"

"Oh, directory assistance. It's listed. I don't mean to be presumptuous. If it helps, we are not prospective clients."

"We?"

"Yes, I represent an established recording company. I can tell you more if and when you're interested. We've been watching your work."

"Really?" I felt violated but a little intrigued. I'd hear them out anyway.

"You have quite a portfolio of acts in your charge. We're impressed."

"Really, I'm flattered, but there are lot of agents in this city."

"Of course. It's just that we've had this experience again and again. We go into a packed club, and it's a band we have never heard of before. We can't figure out their appeal, but they obviously have a a built-in audience. Then we ask around, who represents them? It's always Reuben Kincaid."

"Well, it's true, I represent all kinds of acts," I explained with a forced chuckle, "I like to say that my speciality is variety."

"Heh. Very good. Well, we like variety. What we really like are hits. And we think you have a talent for spotting them. Take that one, uh, with the lady keyboardist."

"Yeah, one of my favorites. But you know, there's nothing magic about it. She's a conservatory-trained harpsichordist. I don't think she even realizes it, but she's a true pioneer mixing pop and baroque like that. "

"Right, we ran the numbers too, so to speak, and it always makes sense in retrospect. But you're there ahead of everyone. That's the magic. So in short, we wonder if you'd like to meet."

"For?"

"Look, maybe you get a kick out of freelancing. I understand that. But let's chat. I think we might be able to persuade you. Salary, bonus, that kind of thing. What kind of commission are you getting?"

"Um..."

"No pressure. But if you think you might be interested..."

I took their number and said I'd consider it. In fact, I liked my life as an agent a great deal. I also enjoyed working with Harold. But this could be big. It might be worth following up.


	4. Harold's Plan

I let a few weeks go by to think over the opportunity. I wasn't eager to switch, but I wanted to keep it open. I worked out a plan for the other problem vexing me. It began with a discreet inquiry the next time I was in the office.

"Harold, I had meant to ask. Janet didn't happen to leave any contact information, did she?"

"You're not pining over her, I hope," replied Harold, getting straight to my awkwardness. "It's not a good look in a man your age."

"No. No, I agree."

"I'm not sure what you do when you're off work, but you ought get out more, like on dates I mean, not just checking on your acts."

"Yeah," I smiled. "You're probably right about that. I just thought I'd send her a postcard or something, tell her how business is going. Maybe she could tell us more about the scene in England right now."

"Well," Harold chuckled, humoring me, "I guess there's no harm in that. She left a permanent address, her parents', in case she'd forgotten papers or anything. I haven't needed to use it."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Just keep it professional, all right? I trust you."

"I will."

"And, uh, tell her I said hi. You can let her know the door is always open if she wants her job back."

This was a start at least. It would still seem strange to get a letter out of the blue from me. I had to get the tone right. There had to be some plausible, non-crazy explanation for why I needed her help. I also had to avoid the impression that I'd been nursing a crush all this time. Though I didn't see why she'd leap to that conclusion, Harold had. Right, keep it professional.

Business moved along smoothly. We considered adding new clients for the first time in months as we inevitably lost a few. I had a feeling Harold was working on something. I saw him writing a lot of notes but he'd get cagey if I tried to bring it up.

Then he sprung it on me all at once.

"It's done! What do you think of it, Reuben?" He held out a poster for my consideration. I'd never seen Harold sketch as much as a stick figure, and this looked like the work of a skilled graphic artist. Had he had it commissioned? "Thousand Suns Records," it said, and in smaller print "Dedicated to the Light Within Each of Us."

"Um, well, I like the artwork a lot." And I wasn't lying. The artist had blended a powerful mind expansion motif with softer themes of peace, love, and harmony. It was almost a Rorschach test to decide which was dominant. "But," I asked "what is it for?"

"Our new recording label! I'll make you a full partner."

I stood speechless.

"You know," he continued. "I've saved some money over the years. I had meant to expand the business, but was never sure how. It finally hit me. This is what I've been working towards all these years. So, you in or what?"

"I need more..." I stumbled over my words. "I think starting a brand new business is pretty risky, don't you? Have you run it by anyone else?"

"You're the first."

"If, if you don't mind some constructive criticism." I began hesitantly. "Don't you think a lot of people are going to think of atomic testing when they see 'Thousand Suns'?"

"It's all explained here," countered Harold, and he pointed to a blurb at the bottom of the poster.

As I read it, Harold walked me through his thinking.

"It turns out that Oppenheimer, the physicist you know, was alluding to the Bhagavad Gita when he said that. It's a sacred Hindu religious text, very influential."

I knew some of this. Thoreau for instance, but I waited for him to continue.

"So it _always _referred to a divine light. And this will be dedicated to the idea that..."

I cut Harold off and quoted back his own blurb. "... the light of the human spirit can outshine the most terrific intensity of our superweapons."

"Harold," I began, "you're a good guy and I think that's a wonderful sentiment, a real keeper. But didn't you once ask me if I knew what business we were in? Are you starting a recording company or a religion?"

"Is there a difference?" he asked with a smile.

"Yes!" I couldn't control myself. "Yes Harold, there is a _big _difference. I've been listening to you go on about freaking Woodstock for months now."

I saw his expression and toned myself down as well as I could.

"OK," I started again. "You may have a niche market here. You're not alone in this whole, uh, quest for enlightenment."

"Neesh?"

Maybe nobody used the term "niche market" in 1970. I wasn't sure. I explained, "I mean you might find a small group of customers who really like it."

"No," insisted Harold. "This is going to be big. This is going to change everything."

"Well," I backpedaled. "Let me think about it. I've always trusted your business sense. It's a big decision."

"I know."

A job at an established label looked better right now than it had before. I would have to follow up on the phone call. But first there was the matter of writing that letter. I had been putting it off as I considered how best to phrase it. Was I crazy to think that just by using the right words, I could set a chain of events into motion on another continent?


	5. Another Path

I deflected Harold and his business proposal as well as I could while pursuing the offer from the recording company. After a brief followup meeting they scheduled some interviews and we moved ahead with the process. Fortunately, they were impressed enough with my work not to demand references, which were non-existent other than Harold. I would have to fake a resume if they had asked for one. They didn't, to my great relief. In that other life I knew it would not be this easy to get by on my flimsy paper identity.

In the meantime, my letter to Janet had succeeded beyond all hope. Things were starting to move in the right direction.

_Dear Reuben,_

_What a surprise to hear from you! I was sure you Angelenos had quite forgotten about me. Things are going well, thank you._

_Please tell Harold I said hello and I appreciate his offer. I don't expect to be returning, but you never know. Sometimes I miss "the biz." I had started to get rather good at it, if I say so myself._

_I've been getting my old life back in order. To answer your question, yes, I decided to have another crack at cello. I think I have a fighting chance to make a career of it. Over here, I have what you might call a "support network" to keep me going. I felt cut off so far from home._

_As for Jimi Hendrix, I don't know why you're certain he'll be here in September, or what you think I can do to create a "diversion." I'm sure many people have tried to get close to him for their own reasons. However, I do have some news._

_I happened to bring up Hendrix with my father, who you might imagine to be a bit stuffy about music. You'd be right. But, as he said in his stuffy way, "I make an exception for genius." He's quite the fan it turns out! He has secretly been collecting everything recorded by Jimi Hendrix and the Experience._

_In the act of revealing this, he got it in his head that Hendrix ought to perform with full orchestral backing here in London, and he means to pull every string he can to see it happen. I have my doubts, but I don't think I have seen him so determined in many years._

_I will let you know of any developments. Do stay in touch._

_Cheers,_

_Janet_

This letter proved nothing by itself, but it gave me an understanding of how I could alter the timeline (a term I'd read in stories) not by stepping in directly but through influence. Here was a cascade of actions I could not have envisioned, and others might exist as well. Tap here, tap there, and suddenly a whole chain of dominoes will fall. Predicting where they'd fall, now that was another thing. I admit I felt nervous about all of this.

My interviews went well. I entered into them with the confidence of my other life's experience as well as the past year of work. I had learned how to separate my hints of the future from what I knew directly. My insights might seem uncanny, but i knew how to explain them. In short, the job was mine whenever I wanted it. I explained that I need time to wrap things up.

I brought it up with Harold the next Monday morning, giving us a week to work something out. "I have some news," I began. I paused. "And it affects your plans."

"Uh, OK. Care to elaborate?"

"Well," I started again. It was more awkward than I had imagined it. "To get to the point, I've been looking for another job and I won't be joining your new business."

"Reuben," he said, a little irritation in his voice. "You remember you agreed not to poach any bands."

"Yes. And I'm keeping my promise. I'll drop any bands I picked up with you. I am not going to work as an independent agent anymore."

"Really?" Now Harold was surprised. "You're the best I've ever known."

"Thanks. Uh, I think I want some stability now, a job with a big label." I went into a little more detail on the offer.

Harold grimaced as I explained. Then he began.

"Look, you're swimming with sharks here. They just want to steal your rolodex and leave you for dead."

"I thought about that. I agree it could look like that. We will get it all down in writing. Honest, Harold, the last thing I'd do is hurt your business. I don't think they want the bands anyway. They're just hiring a scout."

"Hmm," he said, unconvinced. "Well, you'd be giving up something big. I was going to show you my plans today. This is where the industry is heading, and we'd be on the leading edge."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," I started. I had been thinking about something over the last few days. "We're coming at it in different ways. I just remembered, I don't know where it's from, but I have a motto I have always followed."

"Really? I'd like to hear it," said Harold, perking up.

"My motto is: 'Come on get happy.'"

"That's a motto?"

"OK, there's more to it. I guess it's just what it symbolizes to me. Tell me this. What is one thing that has no practical purpose, but can bring happiness to people?"

Harold started to reply, but I cut him off.

"Music, obviously! That's the business we're in. Some people make music, and that makes them happy. Others are happy to listen to it. Some people want to make a particular kind of music. Others want to listen to that kind. That's what makes them happy."

Harold was getting impatient. I admitted that my thoughts didn't seem quite as profound when I tried to verbalize them.

"The goal is to bring people together. Sometimes to bring them together singing. Other times, just to bring them together with the kind of music they want to hear."

I held off Harold's interruption to get to the point.

"And my role is to get people together. I find what they like. I find those who make it. I don't judge. I don't try to expand their horizons. I just give them what they want, and make them happy. It's my role in life."

"I see," began Harold. "Well, does that really make you any better than a pimp, or a drug dealer?"

"Sure it does. We're talking about music here, not something harmful, something good."

"Music is a serious business and bad music _is_ harmful," countered Harold.

"To you maybe," I tried to explain. "We have different paths in life. I think you may be onto something with your new label, but that's for you. I am... a facilitator. That's my purpose. I do one thing and I do it well."

"Facilitator, huh. Well, Reuben, maybe there is something to it." He reached for one of the books that had been piling up on his desk and started to flip through it.

I waited.

"I can't find it here, but I agree with something you said. We do have to follow our paths. I don't mean to take you away from yours."

Harold was clearly disappointed, but I was reassured that this would be an amicable split.


	6. They Call It Work

"There's a reason they call it work," I thought to myself. I had no one but myself to blame, but I had to admit that working for a big label had its downside.

Extricating myself from my old business had been simple enough. I had the sense to bring in a lawyer to draw up conditions on the bands I had been representing. They were Harold's now, though I knew he wasn't a big fan. Maybe he could fit them into the label he was starting. God knows, most of them were champing at the bit to release an album.

My new employers weren't interested in any of my bands, just as I'd thought. They were hiring on skills, and still had the old company man model. On paper, it was a good deal. My salary was higher and more predictable than before. I had benefits and a nicer office. Moreover, I was working for a known quantity with big names people would recognize anywhere, not just Southern California.

On balance, it was a good move. Harold had taken off in a direction I couldn't follow. This was my best way out. It was also something new, not just compared to the past year but to anything I had done in my half-remembered life up to this point. I missed freelancing, but I'd give this a try. I meant to get good at it.

My life as an oddball musicologist and time-travel theorist had transformed into something more common in my industry. I was socializing a lot more, drinking harder and keeping crazy hours. I was stressed out and starting to wonder how long it could go on. I remembered something in my former life had kept in all in balance. Crazy as it sounds, it was some sort of meditation, but I had forgotten it.

I still had my sleep mask and began to use it on a regular basis to make it through late mornings and afternoons catching up on missed sleep. It did not lead to any disturbing dreams so far. In fact, I began to forget some of the things I used to learn from these dreams. With mixed feelings, I wondered if I would eventually forget them all.

Something odd was happening on the Hendrix front. Had my letter worked? He had started his final tour right here in Los Angeles in April. The tour was supposed to hit venues in the US for months to come, but here it was late May and I had a short letter from Janet with a photo of herself and Hendrix, along with an older man I did not recognize.

_Dear Reuben,_

_We're having a lovely time here, as you can see. Dad made his pitch to Mr Hendrix after all. Don't ask me how. I'm afraid it won't go anywhere, but good on him for trying. It's been an exciting couple of days. I'll write more when I get a chance._

_Cheers,_

_Janet_

While I didn't know the exact tour dates, it seemed nearly impossible for Hendrix to be in Europe right now and still make his gigs. I was right. By mid-June, it looked like the tour had been put on hold. That was not part of the history I knew.

Eventually, some of it came out in the music press. Jimi Hendrix had taken a break from his tour to conduct some business in London. When asked about it, he was dismissive. They wanted him for "some kind of Liberace deal, and I told them I wasn't interested," he had explained. Rumor had it he'd used more colorful language. No matter, that and problems around his recent concerts had caused him to reevaluate his act. He wasn't officially canceling the tour but was going to make some major changes before moving ahead.

With trepidation, I realized I had done it. I might not have fixed anything, but I had definitely changed things. I would keep a close eye on this and consider next what to do about Janis Joplin.

Something new was happening with my memories. As I considered the effect of changing history, I wondered if this would alter what I knew. For now, my memories contradicted what I saw of the present, but was not that simple. There was a kind of oscillation. From minute to minute, I remembered very different things. I was overwhelmed. It was long past time to see a shrink. By now I was certain I had real connection to the future, whether I understood it or not.

I wasn't happy with the man I'd become after taking the new job. There was no doubt I was good at it, but it seemed to miss the mark on all grounds. It lacked Harold's idealistic vision as well as Janet's artistic integrity. Even my idea of matching artist and audience was lost. We had a product to sell and would make an audience whether it was there or not. I grew sleep deprived and irascible. A few of my colleagues were settled with kids, and I hated them for it. I developed a sarcastic streak I had never known before.

The one silver lining was my newfound power over history. I made a list of all the artists I could think of that would be lost in the next years. I realized I needed to act fast as each change could alter everything I knew. In the hours I explained away (truthfully) as nursing a hangover, I would draw up plans.

My dreams now returned. These were more disturbing than ever, because they reflected a shifting reality. I often woke up in the early morning and had trouble returning to sleep. While none of this harmed my work, it took a toll on my well-being. How long, I wondered, could it go on?

My answer came soon in the return of my dream archives. I had not had a dream fitting this formula in months as I'd settled into a routine that depended more on ordinary judgment than extraordinary hunches. But here it was again, the archivist at the radio station, his corny attempt at humor. He handed me a tape of an unusually staid news announcement. As I listened, the meaning hit me without warning.

At the words _"...died today in a London hospital, apparently from an overdose of drugs..."_ I awoke with a jolt. How was this possible? It was mid-August by now. Hendrix had not resumed his tour. Rumors varied as to his whereabouts (Big Sur was the most popular guess) but this news report had followed the old history. Whatever was happening, the dream did not fit.


	7. Canceled

When I awoke, I scrambled to find any evidence to contradict my dream. The letters from Janet were not where I thought I put them. How could that be? I rummaged through a pile of papers that had been accumulating for the past few months. Finally! There it was, the first one anyway. I recognized the airmail envelope. I retrieved the delicate onionskin note.

It was not exactly the letter I remembered. Janet was friendly but dismissive about my plan. That part hadn't changed. She mentioned her father, but this time said nothing about his musical interests. I wondered now if I was really losing my mind. Had I imagined the recent developments? Skimming through magazines in the same stack, I read that Hendrix's Cry Of Love tour had proceeded from city to city through July as originally scheduled. He would probably be in Europe by now and I had done nothing.

I wondered if I still had time. There might yet be a way to get some people with more sway to create the diversion I needed. But if I couldn't trust my recent memory, then how could I expect any of it to work?

For that matter, I considered, what if it had worked already? I felt certain all the recent events were real. Nothing about the past few months seemed delusional. All the evidence of my new job, from pay stubs to dinner receipts, were around me in my apartment. Could I have functioned every other way while hallucinating one part of my life? I could not dismiss my successful hunches, but trying to change the course of history may have sent me over the edge.

Another possibility was that someone or some other force had interfered to cancel my changes. The interference idea was the craziest yet, piling one impossibility on another.

If not interference, then maybe some restorative factor. Anything I knew from my other life would happen no matter what I did. That fluctuation in the time line had been corrected perhaps by something as simple as sheer inevitability. But then why had I been strung along thinking I could make a difference? I had been tantalized into using my power and then it all came to nothing.

I gave up thoughts of fighting. I knew now that September and October would bring bad news in close succession. And after that... well, it was a turbulent time in many ways. The world would live through it. The only difference is that I would see it coming.

There had already been days when my hints of the future seemed less intense. The more I focused on the present, it seemed, the more I could free myself of this connection with the future, and I wanted to. The knowledge had been a gift, no question, but it was now a curse, and not something I needed. I was good at my work. I liked it and was paid well. Hell, people would kill to have my job. I might as well enjoy it.

There were times when I still thought I had squandered something very special. Those bands I found for Harold, how were they doing? I eased my worries by recalling they were all sure things. That's why I picked them, though I no longer remembered the details. Maybe I was just a tool of destiny. I had shown up to get some artists on the right track and now I was no longer needed. I could go on to a well-earned and normal life. As much as I told myself this, I didn't believe it.

Sleep was getting harder, and I was using help. I had a doctor's prescription for sleeping pills, nothing illicit, though the prescription did not include the mix of a night's drinking. I wasn't treating my body well and sometimes it showed in my mood. Occupational hazard, I told myself, just your typical harried music guy. I was far from the worst case even at my office.

I'd usually put a 45 on the turntable to relax before sleeping. Chosen well, it could carry my thoughts far away. If it saved me from taking an extra pill, so much the better. One night, on a whim, I picked the B side of a Donovan single from a year back. It had charted briefly and was far enough from my usual fare that it seemed like a good distraction. My mind drifted as I listened to the Scottish-accented monologue.

_"The continent of Atlantis was an island which lay before the great flood in the area we now call the Atlantic Ocean..."_

On it went about painted sails, Egyptian, antediluvian something something. Without denying its appeal, I still couldn't fathom what he was going on about. I should ask Harold. Heh, I bet he'd have a lot to say.

_"On board were the Twelve: The poet, the physician, the farmer, the scientist, the magician, and the other so-called ..."_

What? That's only five. Who were the other seven? How can he leave out more than half? That part always bugged me, but right now it got my mind off more troubling things.

And finally the chorus.

_"Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be, __Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be__"_

Again and again like a kind of incantation. As I listened, I fell into a deep sleep.


	8. Way Down Below the Ocean

The sleeper fell into a dream like none he'd had before, surpassing his waking life in its clarity. The time lived as Reuben now seemed as through a veil. Pulled back, he saw it instantly "I am Daniel. I remade myself as Raymond. Somehow I woke up as Reuben. And..."

The pieces all fell together. The mask, those kids at Altamont, the radio tapes of his dream archive. Most of it made sense, but time travel? Yes, he'd been warned not to use the mask when meditating. Still, who would believe it?

He looked around. He was in deep water, though he felt none around him. For all that, his surroundings seemed real. This was the the ocean floor, he thought. There were fish, not too many at this depth. One swam right through him as if he wasn't there. He had a sense that he saw more than should be possible in the trickle of sunlight from the surface far above. But for all the unreality, he knew this was a genuine place and time, not his imagination.

There were ruins here. He took a closer look. Not a shipwreck, as he'd first guessed, but buildings. Reduced to rubble, there were hints of refined artisanship. Ancient though it appeared, nothing obvious registered. It no more resembled the classical columns of the Parthenon than it did the pagodas he had admired in Nepal. It was something entirely different, another civilization. A proud civilization it surely was. What had brought him here?

A form was coming to him from far off. At first it seemed an unusual kind of fish with flowing wings like a manta ray. He realized that the form was walking, not swimming. Closer still, he recognized the figure of a beautiful woman. The flowing wings were the undulations of an almost regal gown. When he saw her face, finally, he fell into a shock of recognition.

"Meadow?" He gasped. "But no it can't be." In fact, it couldn't. He'd last seen her over a decade earlier, or a decade in his time whatever that meant. She had not aged at all.

"I am Livadi. You knew me in another aspect. I am many. When one lives enough lives it is inescapable."

"What?" He was too confused to say much else.

"You will understand, Daniel. Welcome to my land, or what's left of it. I still have memories of my father's orchard, so long ago." She pointed to a nondescript patch of sea floor. "This was our household shrine." She waved her hands over the ruins beside them. "Undiscovered by your people even with your submarines and satellite maps."

"What land? Where are you from."

"Our name is long forgotten, but you would know it as Atlantis."

"Like Aquaman?" he asked incredulously.

"No, Daniel." Her dignified demeanor broke in exasperation. "Not like Aquaman. The nonsense that has been spread about my people! And it goes back as far as your Plato. We were ancient even then. Do you think we _live _underwater?" She spread out her arms. "Does anyone live here but fish?"

She was not done. "Do the Pompeians live in Mount Vesuvius? That makes as much sense. No, the water swallowed us whole. Some of us escaped. Many did not. We have lived among you ever since."

"It's that Donovan record," Daniel protested. "I'm having a dream about some silly hippie music. That's all."

"Donovan." Livadi smiled. "Actually his is one of the more accurate accounts." Her smile broke into a laugh. "No, it is not _very _accurate. But we love him all the same. It's our calling card. We knew you would find it eventually."

Daniel considered this silently.

"You should not have used the mask," she continued. "We told you. True, we lost track of you briefly, but thought you low risk. Now is the time to salvage what has been broken."

"What do you mean?" Daniel finally asked.

"You were on the right track. If you had practiced another fifty years, you would have been one of us. Able to ride the currents with grace."

"Fifty years?! Do you know how old I would be?"

"As we live, time and age do not matter. But you jumped too soon and we must handle the consequences."

"Tell me," Daniel replied, now taking her at her word. "What stopped me from changing history?"

"But you did. And with great subtlety too, at least for a novice. It was hard work for us to turn it back."

The meaning dawned on him.

"You... how could you? I saved a life. I saved a great artist. Why would you turn things back? I only made things a little better."

"You think there is no weight to the life of an artist? One of our neophytes thought that too. He had the idea that if a certain Austrian painter could be given a gallery show, he might stay out of trouble."

Gradually, the meaning clicked into place. "He prevented World War II?"

"No." Livadi could not restrain her laughter, but soon her face grew severe. "It turned out much worse. You have no idea. There were others waiting in the wings, five or six at least, just as terrible but more effective, less easily defeated. You cannot simply change one factor. This is not a job for a lone wolf.

"I want you to think carefully," she continued. "How long has your so-called civilization had a weapon that could destroy life as we know it? Five decades? Your own timeline has gone farther along than that, and we have watched beyond. Can we make it a century? We try. We know what it is when a civilization destroys itself. It is our story."

"You had the atom bomb?" Daniel blurted.

"No, our learning took a different turn. We do not have all the contrivances of your scientists. We are not, as I hoped I'd explained, the Atlantis of domed undersea cities and submarines. That is _your_ juvenile fantasy."

"What is your power then? Why have we not learned it too?"

"Hah!" Livadi shot back. "Do you think we would allow it? Forever vigilant. That is our way. And believe me Daniel, it is wearying. A few are chosen to help, and they must be deemed worthy."


	9. Atlantis

"Let me show you what was lost," continued Livadi, as both rose far above the sea floor. "Not much remains visible, but this is where it is centered."

From the height, Daniel saw little remaining structure, but could tease out artifice here and there: straight spans of roads, collapsed spires, contours of courtyards.

"It still grieves me to think of this, though my time among your people has been much longer than I lived among my own. I was a young woman when the cataclysm happened."

"You must have been a princess," said Daniel without thinking, overcome by her appearance and what he was hearing.

"We left those archaic institutions behind long before my birth. True, we kept some pageantry. I wear the symbol of office." She pointed to a medallion hanging below her collarbone. "But my title is not of royalty. 'Seeker' would be a better translation. I was dispatched to faraway lands, even before all was lost, to find those with the resonance."

"The resonance?"

"Most of us were like your people." Suddenly, she choked up. "We could only save as many as fit in our ships and hope they would be welcomed on other shores. Those with the resonance, as I have, as you have as well, fared better but there have never been many of us. And we were the cause of what happened."

"Really? What happened?"

"It is an ancient tale of hubris. We flatter ourselves to think it the original one. We were not so advanced in the ordinary arts, the arts of the veneer as we called them. Your archeologists, if they found our ruins, would classify us as a prosperous Bronze Age society. It is our other powers that gave us a reputation beyond all that."

"I don't get it," interrupted Daniel. "Powers like what? Paranormal? Wouldn't we have figured it out by now?"

"You've tried for millennia. Have you ever wondered why there is so much interest in phenomena that never quite hold up under scrutiny? Do you think this is a coincidence? These are dangerous powers. They destroyed us.

"I was one of the last generation, still apprenticed when it happened. Our island was peaceful and just. What we saw in the world beyond horrified us. We had kept it at bay, but we believed that if we could assemble all those with the gift that we could reshape the world as we knew it.

"By the time we knew what we had done it was too late. We have regretted it ever since and made sure it does not happen again. We did not anticipate how far you could advance without our arts."

"I'm still not following," said Daniel.

"We have blocked all attempts to see beneath the veneer. Save for a few that we choose such as you, Daniel. Since then, your people have learned to manipulate the veneer in ever more subtle ways. We try to comprehend. A few of us have advanced far in your so-called physics. Such a hard way to go about it, though very clever. It is not my focus. I only know the old ways.

"We watched with interest as you made the most ingenious discoveries, silly though it seemed to us, as if a dreamer meant to discover the rules behind their dream. But more recently, your discoveries have endangered the underlying structure, not just the veneer. Our work is now devoted to preventing another much larger cataclysm."

"I admit," said Daniel, "That a lot of us thought we were lucky to make it through the Cold War without using the bomb. In Reuben's time, it's still an obsession."

"It wasn't luck. We have been working hard. When we selected you, we rejoiced to find another gifted one, a waif far from home with a sense of adventure, receptive to our ways."

"Selected me?"

"Do you think our life in Kathmandu was as shiftless as yours? We were there for a reason. I mean no offense. You were young, out to explore the world. And you had the resonance. When we see it, we must always act, if only to stop it manifesting in uncontrolled ways. We started you on the discipline, though you did not understand it."

"You told me it was a meditation. For balance. I kept it up for years."

"Yes, and we lost track of you briefly, before we could take you to the next step. We are to blame for that, but never say you were not warned."

"The mask?" scoffed Daniel. "How could I believe that?"

"You heeded our warning for years. That is how we let our guard down."

"One thing," Daniel interjected, changing the topic. "At Altamont I met myself as a kid. Just briefly."

"Yes, and those events are as perilous as your stories say."

"But that's not my point. I don't look like Reuben." In his dream, he had the appearance of the adult Daniel. His build was Daniel's and he had felt his face to make sure.

"These transfers are unpredictable. You brought a few artifacts with you but not your body. You entered another when you awoke."

"Another? What happened to him?" Daniel turned pale.

"Rest assured, the other man is fine. It was an exchange. A happy exchange for him."

"I don't believe it. What about future shock? I know how disoriented I was and I could make some sense of the past."

"If you must know, your counterpart lived alone. He had come to Los Angeles with youthful dreams and settled instead as an office clerk at an aerospace firm. One day he awoke from a nap on a park bench to find himself a music agent at the dawn of the 21st century. Not everyone overthinks these things as you do. He's Raymond now and he's blissfully doing your job."

Daniel's brow furrowed.

"Not as well as you of course," added Livadi with a gentle smile. "The time exchanges often work the path of least resistance. You arrived with precisely the artifacts you needed to make a new start."

Daniel considered this skeptically, but had more questions.

"Something else has been nagging me. What is it with Harold? Does he have some kind of contact with your people? Sometimes he gets the future so wrong, so precisely backwards that I wonder if he's playing games with me."

"Your old boss. No, we do not speak to him. He has a different sensitivity. Oddly, the one he thought you had. He is the one in tune with the Zeitgeist. There are others like him, of course. What Harold anticipates is what would happen without our efforts to thwart it."

"Thwart it? What? You can't mean that. All Harold wants is peace, love, and good music. I even thought I could help him out with Altamont and Hendrix. And... you bastards! You stopped me! How could you?"

"Harold could have his Age of Aquarius, and it would be beautiful, no doubt. Beautiful just as long as it lasted. There are very few timelines in which your nuclear weapons are kept out of use. It is hard work for us. We may not find the most beautiful path, but we are seeking a safe path.

"And now we must plan ahead for your life as Reuben. You've been forgetting some things..."

"Yes," affirmed Daniel. "I noticed. I thought it was from job stress."

"As you settle into a new timeline, the mind adjusts. Soon you will only be Reuben Kincaid with the knowledge of his time."

Daniel didn't know whether to be relieved or heartbroken.

"However, nothing is ever truly lost, and we may need you from time to time. You will know when that time comes."


	10. A Gift

I slept longer than intended. I rarely needed an alarm to wake up early, but this time it took a ray of sunlight coming through my window to bring me to consciousness. My first waking sight was the red glow of my closed eyelids. I had the sense to turn my head before opening them, and found myself looking at the clock. It was well past 9:30. I did not need to be anywhere, but I wondered how I had slept so well. I hadn't taken any pills the night before and must have been catching up naturally.

My night had been full of dreams, or was it one long one? It seemed my choice of music had sent me into a vivid undersea fantasy. The details escaped me. I was frustrated, not just to be deprived of a good story, but of something more important. The dream left me with a feeling of profound, almost life-changing discovery. If you had asked me about what, unfortunately, I would not be able to say.

Something about it had stirred the need to see Harold at his office. We hadn't talked since I started my new job, and I felt there were loose ends. I also wondered how his new business was going. I called my company to tell them I had some errands and would be in around lunchtime.

Harold had changed the signage but still had the same location. I assumed he did the recording at another facility. I stopped myself from walking right in, though I doubt he'd have minded. I knocked like any other visitor. Harold answered.

"Reuben, what a surprise!" He looked at me sideways. "You, know if you want in, there's still time, but not for long. I'm close to hiring an assistant."

"No, I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"You'd be a full partner, just like I said. Seriously, you're passing up on a gold mine."

"Well," I smiled. "You might be right, but my job is going fine. I just wanted to wish you luck. Something made me think that you might be onto something with this recording company."

"So join me!"

"Nah, this is your thing, Harold. I have mine."

"Well, all right," he said, losing steam. "Actually I'm planning to record your band next week."

"My band?"

"The first one you found! They've really grown on me. I'm sorry I called them schlock. I remember that. They just weren't like anything I'd heard before. Now I'm sure they'll fit perfectly."

"Well, give them my regards. I'm excited to hear it."

"Oh, on that note, Carolyn was here hoping to get in touch with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah, she had a great aunt who died," Harold continued.

"I'm sorry." I shook my head.

"Well, it was years back. The thing is, she had an inheritance that was stuck in probate the whole time."

I wondered where this was going and just listened.

"In fact, it was news when it happened. I didn't know it was about her. There was a dispute surrounding a certain item, a decorative piece. I don't know how to describe it. The other relatives thought it might be very valuable and wanted it appraised before it was handed to Carolyn."

I just sighed. So typical. But I still had no idea why Harold was telling me this.

"They brought in antiquities experts. After studying it, they pronounced the workmanship 'superlative.' That was their word if I recall right. But they were unable to assign it to any known artist or art tradition. In short, it looked ancient, but there was no way to rule out an elaborate hoax. There was no precious metal content, so the monetary value was minimal. The relatives eventually lost interest and dropped their dispute."

"I'm happy it's resolved now," I replied, not sure what else to say.

"And Carolyn wants you to have it," Harold concluded, "as a token of appreciation for getting her band on track." He produced an ornate medallion from a nearby shelf.

I was immediately hit with déjà vu. In fact, it was not just the feeling I'd seen a piece like that before, but that it was somehow connected to my dream from the night before. Market value or not, I felt this was something very precious.

"It's beautiful. I couldn't possibly accept it," I protested.

"Carolyn told me to insist. That's why she left it with me. She knew I wasn't afraid to be pushy."

I took a closer look, admiring the artistry. "Look Harold, wherever this is from, whatever the appraisers said... it's hers. She should put it in a safe deposit box or something, maybe have it reappraised. I can't take it. It's one of a kind. She'll regret giving it away."

"She said she knew it would be in good hands."

"Well..." I considered. "I don't think I've received anything quite like it before. I guess that's the kind of thing that makes it all worth it. You can tell her that."

"I will," promised Harold.

I made a mental note not to get too attached to it. Carolyn was young and if she ever wanted it back, it was hers for the asking.

What a crazy morning it had been so far. I didn't know why I had even gone to see Harold in the first place, and I certainly wasn't expecting this. I needed to get back to my regular job now. Later I would have to find a safe place to put this... whatever it was.

I got to my company even later than planned. It turned out they needed me to take a trip up north in a few weeks to talk to some local DJs. Small potatoes, but I was the new guy. Anyway, that's what I get for coming in after lunch.

I knew when I signed on that the job would require some travel, but this was the first time I had needed to leave Los Angeles for work. In fact, I'd be headed close to Altamont again, and it brought back disturbing memories.

Funny thing about that. I knew about the stabbing at Altamont, but most of the other details of that trip escaped me. Maybe I had just blocked them out. I had been forgetting a lot of things, it seemed, since I started the new job.


	11. Come On Get Happy

As the weeks passed, I thought about my trip. The destination was a town called San Pueblo, east of San Francisco near wine country. It sounded familiar and I asked around. A few people who knew the area thought I must mean San Pablo, but that was a different city. No, there was something that rung a bell about that place and its odd name, not even proper Spanish as far as I knew. Probably one of those post-war communities named by a real-estate developer. I could picture the suburban tract housing already.

This time the company was flying me in: Los Angeles to San Francisco, and then a connecting flight to a local airfield. I've hit the big time I thought, traveling in style. The job had its moments to be sure, at least when it didn't leave me a nervous wreck.

I packed a suitcase for a few days at a hotel. I brought the mask with me of course. That had turned into a real life saver. Never mind that my colleagues started calling me the Lone Ranger after one of them caught me napping in my office with it. A good afternoon snooze can make up for a lot of hard living, and I wasn't about to give it up.

After some thought, I decided to bring the amulet, as I had named it. There was something magical about Carolyn's gift, something ancient and wise. I felt certain of it. I would eventually need to get it into safe storage, but for now I would just keep it close. One day I would discover its meaning.

Relax, I told myself. I just needed to talk up a few radio stations, plug some new singles. Me the big shot agent from the entertainment capital of the world, right? Then I'd go back to my hotel room, sleep it off and catch the next flight back home.

Was it enough, I wondered? Another part of me felt I was ready for anything, as if something extraordinary could happen on this trip, something really new. I had my taste of success already, but what was it I wanted? To be happy. And somehow I knew it was coming my way. To be finally happy for once.

I took one last look at the amulet, wrapped it in a silk cloth, and placed it carefully in my suitcase.


End file.
